The Stranger
by gummybearlover13
Summary: My first attempt at fan fiction. Full explanation and inspiration inside. Rated T for gory descriptions. Thanks for stopping by!


Hey guys! I've been lurking around on fan fiction for a little bit now, and I've had this piece written for some time, but have been trying to work up the guts to post this. This is my first piece, and I've used the plot from mildlyholmes's piece titled "After the Storm". I loved it, and I wanted to add my own touches to it. All credit for the storyline goes to their creative mind, and I hope you don't mind me using it. It's only an incomplete little piece, but I wanted opinions before I even attempted something longer. Please RxR, I'm in 7 grade and this is my first work; I want to know if it was decent or crappy or…yeah, you get it.

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera or its characters**

oOo

There was a knock at the door, and while an overwhelming feeling sparked within her, she rose from her position on the sofa to open it. The door creaked open, revealing a young woman, no older than fifteen, standing there, the left side of her face turned towards Christine, eyes focused to some point in the distance. With a pang of regret, she opened her dainty mouth to consult the orphan.

"I'm so sorry, but we're not providing shelter."

The girl's head snapped up, and Christine let out a piercing shriek as she jumped back. The girl's face…if it could even be called a face. The left side was flawless, with a warm olive tone and a singular, dark beauty mark on her left cheekbone. Her eyebrows were perfectly shaped, bold and dark, with piercing green eyes peeking out from the thick black canopy of lashes upon her lid. The right side of her face, however, looked as though the flesh had been hacked at and melted away. It was grotesque, to be frank, and Christine could compare it to nothing more than the flesh of an animated corpse. There were unnatural dips, the bone of her cheek clearly visible, with scraps of tattered and torn muscles hanging freely from it. The space, where her eyebrow should have been, was carved upwards, resulting in a permanent arched brow. Further still, the skin (for the lack of a better term; the thin covering of material shielding the bone was far too revolting) was gnarled and distorted, rough and uneven. The side of her nose appeared to have caved, the cavity of a nostril clearly visible. There was an unsettling bile rising in Christine's throat, a putrid and burning acid threatening to spill from her lips.

"Christine," Erik rounded the corner, concern laced across the features that were visible through the thick gauze that encircled his face.

Golden orbs met green ones, and the girl drew a pistol as she shoved a shocked Christine out of the way, quietly shutting the door in the process.

"What are you - ?" He began, but she held up a silencing finger. She walked over and drew the curtains, locking the door behind her as she went. Her wild hair was tangled and stained with blood, the blonde mane a matted, wavy mess atop her head.

"Erik, he's here. He's here and he's mad." She finally spoke.

"Who?"

"Him."

"Enunciate, Arya! Who is him?"

A cold, vengeful look crossed over her face as she bitterly spoke his name. "Jalil."

Erik went rigid. He hadn't dared to speak the name of his tormentor since the day that Nadir Khan had been killed. "Why?"

She took a deep breath, her chest quivering slightly. Erik furrowed his brows in worry, a condescending feeling overtaking him at the sight of the uncharacteristic fear that was present in his friend. "He wants us back. The مثله دو (mutilated two)."

Christine, who had been silenced through shock, picked up the use of Persian. She hated the fact that Erik and this girl – hadn't he called her Arya? – were communicating a tongue that was unknown to her. Christine, putting aside the nausea and dizziness that came with looking upon the mangled flesh of the girl, voiced her thoughts aloud.

"Who are you, and how old are you? And why, pray tell, are you talking in a tongue that I do not understand? I am a contender for conversation, if you would care to take notice of me."

The girl arched her good brow, similarly to how Erik would have done. "I'm Arya Petrova, I'm fifteen; I worked with your husband when we were deployed to spy on the Afghani military forces."

Christine took a shocked intake of breath at this. This fifteen year old, a girl who was not yet an adult, had been thrown into the vicious war, a puppet that the government could afford to lose. Christine suspected that, like Erik, she wasn't loyal to the government, rather, she wasn't able to escape the obligations that came with being a KGB spy. She continued to stare at the gnarled skin on Arya's face, trying desperately not to convey the unspoken question, along with the emotions that ran with it. Despite her efforts, Arya seemed to sense the underlying question, and put up the look of defense that Erik continued to do as well. Christine opened her mouth, wanting to speak, but the sharp look in those striking emerald irises filled her with fear.

"Don't utter a word. Were not safe until were out of here."

Arya reached down into her coat pocket, drawing a small glass vile filled with water. Christine noticed a slight tremble of her hand. "I've been finding these strewn about on the streets," she began, "which should have been the first warning sign."

Cobalt eyes trained on amber, Erik and Christine sat silently, studying each other. Erik gave nothing away, while she was barely holding her emotions in. Tears were threatening to spill from her eyes, the consequences of the war settling in. I've been a horrendous excuse for a wife. So absorbed in my own self – pity that I couldn't see what had been going on around me.


End file.
